


buy the brooklyn bridge

by plingo_kat



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a whole new world, and Steve finds himself fitting in pretty well. Especially with Tony Stark as a guide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	buy the brooklyn bridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valtyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valtyr/gifts).



> For the cap_ironman gift exchange over at lj.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, dubious. Four hundred and seventy-one dollars seems like an excessive amount of money to pay for groceries, even if they are for five people.

“Look at it.” Tony gestures. Steve does have to admit that there’s an impressive amount of purchases, enough to make wheeling their (two) shopping cart(s) a fairly precarious endeavor. “This is fine, trust me. Besides, I’m paying, no problem, although I’ve seen your bank account and seventy years of back-pay builds up. Seriously, you have nothing to worry about.”

Steve acknowledges this. He nearly had a heart attack when he saw the number of commas contained in his bank statement. Besides, everything in this modern world is so expensive, perhaps he _needs_ all that money.

And it’s so much easier to spend when he doesn’t actually have to hold the greenbacks and hand them over; money doesn’t really seem _real_ when it’s digital.

“Tony,” he says when they’re loading up the back of Tony’s Aston Martin. “Do you think we could stop by an art store on the way back?”

 

Four stops, a pack of Copic markers (“How can markers be five dollars each, Tony?”), three canvases, various moleskines, pencils, charcoals, and an entire set of oils and brushes later, Steve is numb to the numbers that appear on the cash register, blind to the half-shocked, half-elated expressions of the various store clerks. He just hands over the card Tony pulls out of his wallet (“Like I said Cap, don’t worry.”) when he’s asked and signs when he’s bid and, well, it’s _freeing_ , not having to worry about money. There’s no going back to try and find a cheaper alternative, no walking twice around the shelves ‘just in case’ (although he’s done that too, just to add more things to his shopping cart), no counting out pennies and nickels only to find that he’s three cents short. No having to leave something behind because he can’t justify the expense.

God, Tony must feel like this _all the time_. It explains a lot, actually.

“Wow,” Tony says, finally, when they’re on the road again. “You picked that up fast.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Well. It’s... pretty much entirely different. And I always was a quick learner.”

And that is that.

 

Conveniently, Clint’s birthday is about two weeks later. Clint starts dropping hints twelve days before so that they have plenty of time to get him presents.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says when Steve asks what he’s getting. “Maybe I can make some kind of immobilizing agent for him to put in his arrows. Tranquilizers don’t really work on what we deal with.”

Considering that three days ago giant purple squid-snail hybrids attacked Times Square, Steve really can’t argue with him.

“Knives,” Natasha says shortly, and goes back to cleaning her own. Steve nods and backs away. It’s never wise to bother her when she’s like that.

“I shall gift the most noble Clint with Asgardian mead!” Thor says. “He has expressed interest in the drink of the gods. It shall be a most entertaining evening.”

Steve wonders if Asgardian mead will get him drunk, and resolves not to try it.

“Oh, no idea,” Tony says. “I guess I’ll get him something like, uh, a car? Or something off Amazon, whatever. There’s still time.” He waves hand, realizes he’s holding a wrench, and drops it.

“What’s Amazon?” Steve says.

Tony looks up, and _grins_.

“Oh, you are going to love this,” he promises.

 

Steve may not _love_ the world of internet shopping, but he certainly appreciates it. Or at least he appreciates it until he gets to the places that sell _used_ items.

“So when it says ‘acceptable,’ what it really means is...”

“Kind of really terrible, yeah. You want the ‘excellent’ and ‘very good’ ones, okay? And always read the descriptions, that’s definitely a must.”

“Couldn’t I just buy everything new?”

“A man after my own heart, Cap. Yes, just buy everything new. It makes life a lot easier, trust me.”

Steve, perhaps surprisingly, does.

 

“Oh my god, how many tabs do you even have _open?”_

“It’s not that bad... is it?”

 

So perhaps he goes a little bit crazy in his enthusiasm for gift-shopping; the team has Christmas presents now, an entire two months in advance. Steve is both proud and kind of horrified, and has decided that he won’t be going online to shop until at least after the New Year.

“Do you have wrapping paper?” he asks Tony after entering the code for the door to his lab. Tony whirls around and hides something guiltily behind his back.

“Do I have wrapping paper? Uh, possibly, hey Jarvis, can you find some wrapping paper, call Pepper about it, she probably knows--”

“The closet of the third bedroom has some, sir.”

“That’s--”

“Empty.”

“Right.” Tony blinks and visibly focuses back on Steve. “There you go, problem solved. You can ask Jarvis about anything else, he knows,” a hand-wave, “everything. That goes on in this house,” Tony qualifies.

Then he shuts his mouth, looks at a space somewhere through and behind Steve’s stomach, shakes his head, and turns around.

“Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Steve replies automatically, and is halfway up the stairs before he thinks to wonder if Tony is perhaps acting stranger than normal.

 

Wrapping presents, carefully sliding scissors along measured folds and creasing with militant precision, reminds Steve of when he was a child. He used to sit and watch his mother, proudly taping the last bit of paper in place when she was nearly finished.

“Perfect,” she would say. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

“Yep.” Steve would grin. “But you’re more amazing, ‘cause you did all the work!”

She would rest her hand on his head then, the lightest weight he ever bore.

“You’re pretty amazing too.”

He looks down and pauses, because Clint’s gift is all but done and he didn’t even notice. A quick rummage through the closet also reveals a stick-on bow, which he carefully places on top.

 _From: Steve_ he writes below it in curling script.

 

Clint’s party is a huge affair; Tony’s house is invaded by SHIELD agents, laughing and drinking and eating. A long table is set up in a corner and gifts accumulate on it throughout the night, a steadily growing pile of boxes and envelopes. The Avengers get their own little stack. Steve spends a moment after putting his own box down to guess which present belongs to who: the little one must be Bruce’s, the thin flat ones Natasha’s. Thor’s barrel of ale has a place of prominence up at the front of the room -- Clint is hanging out near it with a large mug. There is no present from Tony.

“Hey,” Steve hears right at that moment, and he turns to see Tony swaying gently on his feet, glass in hand. The other man is dressed in dark slacks and a purple silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the top three buttons undone; he looks like he’s been casually debauched once already, and plans to be done so again that night.

“Hello, Tony.”

Tony peers at him blearily. “You sound disapproving,” he says. “I haven’t done anything to be disapproved of lately, why do you sound disapproving?”

“I don’t sound disapproving!” Steve protests.

“Now you sound guilty.” Tony frowns at him. “Is it because Clint’s present isn’t here? It’s here, just not,” he gestures vaguely at the gift table, “here, here. It’s in the house. I didn’t forget.” Faintly accusing.

“Of course you didn’t,” Steve smiles. “Tony, how much have you had to drink?”

Tony looks down at his glass. “Not that much?”

“Maybe you should give that to me,” Steve says, and steps closer to pluck the tumbler from Tony’s fingers. Now Tony frowns at his empty hand.

“You should try Thor’s mead.” He’s addressing Steve’s throat and the bottom of his chin, leaning in close enough that Steve can feel his breath on his skin, the warmth of him through both their clothes. “I bet if you could get drunk if you had enough.”

“No, thank you,” Steve says, and drains Tony’s glass so he can put it down safely. He needs both hands free to support Tony, who is beginning to tilt alarmingly to the side.

“Oh, look!” Tony says brightly, craning to look around Steve’s shoulder. “Cake!”

 

Steve spends the rest of the party herding Tony around the food tables and away from anybody it would be inadvisable for him to interact with in his current state. Surprisingly, he doesn’t mind all that much; there are few SHIELD agents he truly recognizes (which isn’t good, he should get to know more of the men -- and women), and Tony is good company.

Eventually the party dies down and only the Avengers are left, the huge living room strangely empty after being filled with people. Paper plates stuff the trash cans and glasses are scattered everywhere, a few sorry left-overs sitting abandoned on the tables. Steve winces at the thought of cleaning up.

“Presents!” Clint slurs with enthusiasm, staggering toward the gift table.

“Ah, are you sure you should open those now?”

“Drunk present opening is the best present opening,” Tony imparts sagely from where he’s draped over Steve’s shoulder. Steve isn’t sure how he managed that, actually.

He looks towards Natasha, the only other sober one, for help, but she shrugs. “Clint’s a big boy, he can make his own decisions.”

“You’re my favorite,” Clint tells her earnestly.

Thor just grins.

“Maybe we should move this to the floor.” Steve is surprised Clint hasn’t tripped on something yet, actually. He doesn’t want to test the other man’s coordination when trying to handle what will undoubtedly be delicate or lethal equipment when he opens his presents.

“Circle time!” Tony cheers, and sits down where he stands. Then he pushes a chair away by the legs, wincing a little at the screech, and pats the ground beside him. “Come on, Steve.”

“Is this an Earth tradition?” Thor asks, but sits down accommodatingly when Tony gestures.

Bruce drags himself over too, although he looks about ready to fall asleep. Natasha saunters her way to them and folds herself down in a single graceful movement. Steve dodges Tony’s grab and helps Clint carry over he small stack of Avengers presents before seating himself next to Tony, and Clint all but falls to the floor at the head of the vaguely circle-shaped group.

“This is totally an Earth tradition,” Tony says.

“The opening presents part, not the sitting in a circle part,” Steve clarifies, and ignores Tony’s pout.

“Circles _could_ be a tradition,” he mutters, but is ignored by pretty much everybody.

“So whose should I open first?” Clint inspects the presents, ordering them from largest to smallest.

“Mine’s got to be last,” Tony volunteers. Somehow he’s pressed up against Steve’s side, cheek mashed against Steve’s shoulder. It makes his words nearly unintelligible. “I’ll show it to you in the morning. Uh, later in the morning.”

“Big, then,” Clint concludes, and picks up the smallest package. “We’ll go in order.”

“That’s mine,” Bruce says. “It’s not big, it’s small.”

Clint stares at him. “Exactly.”

There’s a pause.

“Is it not customary to open your gift?” Thor says. He’s sitting cross-legged, and for a moment Steve is hit with the thought that a Norse god is sitting cross-legged in one of his best friends’ son’s living room, and he has to shake his head.

“Yes,” he said. “Clint?”

“I totally already opened yours, Thor,” Clint says. “But yeah, I’m doing it...”

As Clint tears off the wrapping paper in long strips, the rest of them lean forward.

“They’re... test tubes?” Clint says, voice lilting up. “Bruce, you want to explain?”

“Oh!” Bruce sits up straight. “Right. That bunch on the left, the green ones? That’s tranquilizing gas, the strongest and most all-encompassing I could synthesize. The red ones are both explosive and corrosive; the blue ones sticky. Basically, they fit into your arrows for various kind of effects. And if you need something special I can create it for you, probably.”

Clint’s eyebrows raise. “Cool, man,” he says. “I’ll definitely test these babies out tomorrow. Hey, you think you could whip up, like, pheromones, it would be funny if the next time somebody called me cupid or something I--”

“Clint,” Steve says, and Clint sighs.

“Never mind.”

“My present is next,” Natasha says. Her hands are folded primly in her lap, which shouldn’t be terrifying, but kind of is.

Clint unwraps her gift with care, keeping the wrapping paper intact.

“Aw, you got me weapons.” Clint smiles a little bit foolishly at her. “You know what I like, ‘Tasha.”

“They’re a mostly aluminum alloy,” she explains. “Lightweight and one of the strongest metals known to man. And perhaps a few have bits of vibranium. Perhaps.”

“What!” Tony cries, and lunges for the arrows. Steve has to hold him back. “Do you know how hard it is to get that stuff? And you gave it to _Clint?”_

Clint looks about ready to lunge himself, only at an entirely different target. “You got me _vibranium arrows?_ I think I love you,” he declares.

Natasha smirks, accepting this as her right.

There’s a short scuffle where Steve has to calm Tony down, drawn out by Clint’s taunting, but finally they get to opening Steve’s present: custom leather arm guards, layered and patterned with the SHIELD crest. Clint puts them on immediately, flexing his forearms, and grins at Steve’s nervous fidgeting.

“Relax, I love them. Way better than my old ones. They must have cost you a fortune, though.”

“No more than the rest of the team.” Steve smiles at him.

 

Everybody but Steve doesn’t get up until noon, and by then Steve has finished cleaning up the place. Tony is last to arrive, downing two cups of coffee and a glass of water before speaking in anything but a grunt.

“You owe me a present,” Clint croaks from the kitchen table. He’s massaging his temples, head down.

“I’ll get on that when my head doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode,” Tony mutters back.

“Would you like some toast?” Steve offers.

 

Tony’s gift, as it turns out, is an _entire shooting range_. There are pop-up targets, holographic people, and various different environments; Steve can think of six different ways to use it for training off the top of his head.

Clint whistles. “You should build one of these for SHIELD.”

“Oh, I will.” Tony waves. “But that’ll cost them a couple million, and meanwhile I thought I’d test it on you guys first. Clint, since it’s your birthday gift you get first dibs.”

_”Awesome.”_

 

Life goes on. They get called in on a more disasters. Three in a row are all on the heels of each other, and finally Fury has to banish them to the mansion for some time off-duty so they can rest and recover. Tony disappears into his workshop. Steve wanders around some until he remembers that he bought watercolors two weeks ago and digs them out.

He’s trying to capture the streak-speed effect of the woods and mortar explosions when riding full speed on a bike, sharp lines ahead and blurry on the sides, rear view mirrors just glinting below, when Tony wanders out to sit next to him.

A surprisingly clean finger traces the air above a red-and-orange fountain, a silent explosion.

“The war?” When Steve turns to look, Tony is looking off into the distance, expression a study of neutrality.

“Yeah,” Steve admits, and after a brief silence finds himself telling Tony about the Howling Commandos, how terrified he was when leading the men, and his modified Harley.

“I miss that thing,” he says wistfully, drawing a smooth red arc on a new sheet of paper, filling in with broad strokes, leaving a space empty for the shine of light off polished metal. Blue-grey for the handle-bars, deep blues and greens with the slightest hint of black for the seat. “Do they still make them anymore?”

Tony is quiet. When Steve looks up again he’s tracing the area around his arc reactor.

“I can find out,” he says.

 

Steve’s quick sketch of his motorbike disappears for a couple of days, then turns up at the bottom of one of his desk drawers. He knows Tony took it but doesn’t say anything; the man is touchy, and Steve doesn’t mind.

He does mind when Tony calls him down to the lab and reveals a newly restored Harley-Davidson, gleaming dully in the overhead flourescents.

 _”Tony,”_ he breathes, and has to run his hands over it, curl his fingers around the handlebars.

“It’s not the same, I know,” Tony babbles. Steve barely hears him, checking over every inch of the bike -- it’s exactly as he remembers, and distantly he wonders how long Tony must has spent getting every detail perfect. “But I tried to make it as close as possible, from pictures and stuff, I totally stole your watercolor painting and I apologize but you got it back, right--”

“Tony, _thank you_ ,” Steve says, and when he hugs Tony the other man hugs back nearly as tightly, even without the super-strength.

 

“I feel like I should be bitter about this,” Clint says when Steve reveals his new gift. (He only gloats a little.) “Stark buys you whatever you want, and the rest of us get jack shit.”

“Tony did create an entire training room for us,” Steve points out. “And he’s letting us stay in his house.”

“He’s going to bleed SHIELD dry for making that training room,” Clint says. “And you get a freaking motorcycle -- I want a motorcycle. Hell, I just want to drive one of his cars.”

“I’m sure Tony will let you if you ask.”

Clint glares bitterly.

“Sure, if it’s you.”

 

Transportation actually is an issue; it would be better if the Avengers weren’t dependent on SHIELD cars when they have to mobilize for emergencies. Steve runs the idea by Fury and gets a stipend signed off. He resolutely doesn’t go to Tony for advice, because he knows Tony would just insist on buying everything himself. Or building something outrageous, like a new personal jet or a flying car or something. No, Steve should be able to do this on his own.

Comparatively, the Brabus SLS AMG Roadster isn’t _that_ expensive. That’s what Steve tells himself anyway, and he spends all of Fury’s stipend and a chunk of his own money to buy it. Certainly Tony can upgrade the thing so it’ll survive when all the SHIELD cars get crushed or destroyed. Besides, only Hawkeye and Black Widow really need the transportation anyway, so a two-seater makes sense: Steve has Tony, and the Hulk can get anywhere he wants to under his own power.

They’re rationalizations, but they’re good ones.

 

Clint nearly has a stroke when Steve drives the car back to the mansion. Tony actually comes out of his lab and stares, then claps Steve on the back. Natasha lifts her eyebrows, visibly impressed.

 

It becomes a bit of a trend, actually. Steve is the routine spender; he doesn’t throw away huge amounts of money, not after that first time with the car, but he buys moderately expensive things consistently. It’s no trouble, not on his salary, and it makes the rest of the team happy, so what’s the harm? Morale boosters are always good.

“Team lunch on Tuesday,” he announces one morning at the dinner table, and asks Jarvis as an aside to make a note on Tony’s calendar so the man will remember. “We’re going to go over some new maneuvers.”

“Oh, can we get Greek?” Bruce sits up. “I’ve been craving it recently, no idea why.”

“Sure, if there no objections.” Everybody shrugs or nods. “Good! And it’s on me, of course.”

“I love it when you’re our sugar daddy,” Tony drawls from the doorway. Jarvis must has called him up; that was kind of the AI. “It’s so refreshing.”

“You wish he were your sugar daddy,” Clint mutters, and Bruce has to stifle a snort.

“Hello, Tony,” Steve says.

“Hey, Steve.” Tony smirks, but there’s no malice in it. “Are you being a good provider for the kids?”

“Does that make you the wife?” Steve shoots back, and Tony rocks on his heels a little, brows lifting.

“I could be the wife.” Tony’s voice drops, throaty.

They look at each other.

Clint pushes his chair back. “I refuse to watch you two flirt,” he announces to the room.

“I, uh, left some experiments running...” Bruce follows him out.

Natasha continues eating her eggs, undisturbed.

“Don’t mind me. You two couldn’t get much worse even if I weren’t in the room.”

Steve blushes. Tony locks eyes with him and smiles, jerking his head as he leaves; Steve trails after, hopelessly charmed. This new him has some issues with impulse control, it seems.

He has no problem with that. Neither does Tony.


End file.
